The Silvered (34 page)

“Let me…”

As he peeled the first boot off her foot, she clenched her fists so tightly that the broken edges of her nails cut into her palms. The second either hurt less or couldn’t possibly hurt more.

Her heels looked like raw meat, the scabs scrapped off, the flesh below red and oozing. They felt as bad as they looked. In a just world, they’d at least distract her from her aching legs, but in a just world it was still too early for the maid to have opened her curtains.

“Can’t you…” Tomas waved a hand. “…fix them?”

They looked a lot worse than they had when she’d first exposed them. “No. That’s third level healing.”

“Have you ever tried?”

About to remind him one more time of why she hadn’t been returning for a second year of university, Mirian frowned. In fairness, she
hadn’t
ever tried. She’d been tested for second levels of everything save metal a hundred, a thousand times, to no effect, but she’d claimed sleep on her own. Twice. And she’d called metal to her. So why not a third level in healing? The damage was a little more than
the tiny wounds the students learned to heal on themselves, but the principle was the same and she’d be no worse off if she failed.

Logically, her ability to perform the first level body equilibrium meant she knew her body. She knew it whole and undamaged. Water wanted to be water, her professors had said, and her body wanted to be whole. She could, logically, return it to that condition.

Logic, her professors had also said, is not applicable to mage-craft.

In this case, it seemed they were right.

They were alone in the garden when she looked up and shook her head.

Tomas closed a warm hand around her ankle. “It’s okay…”

She didn’t need to be comforted. She was familiar with failure.

“…the clogs won’t touch your heels. And they’re easy to kick off if we need to run.” He stood and held out his hand. For the second time that morning, she let him pull her up.

The clogs weren’t terribly different than last season’s summer shoes. Wood, rather than leather, and a lot heavier, but easy to kick off was, after all, fashion forward in Aydori. She wouldn’t call them comfortable, but the inside had been worn smooth and, while they were grimy, nothing stuck to her feet. She frowned as she realized the people who took shelter with the Sisters of Starlight had only what they wore and now one of them had even less.

“The fire-starter’s worth more than new clogs,” Tomas told her, as though he’d heard her thought. “We don’t know where to sell it and wouldn’t have the time even if we did.”

The color of the sky said it was no longer dawn, but early morning.

“Out! Out!” One of the Sisters stood in the doorway and Mirian got her first well-lit look at what they were wearing. In the lamplight, all that white had turned their bodies into featureless blobs. Mirian knew they couldn’t possibly be wearing nightgowns under the long white tabards, but the shapeless style was similar. No one would be joining the Sisters of Starlight for the uniform; that was for certain.

The Sister took a step toward them, waving both hands. “You must be gone!”

“Your boots?” Tomas asked, hanging the bedroll over his shoulder.

Mirian glanced down. A pair of well-made boots would no doubt come in handy, but it hurt just thinking of putting them on. “Leave them.”

All three Sisters flapped them through the kitchen and into the outer room where the door stood open and the air was distinctly fresher than it had been.

“What about…?” Tomas paused on the threshold, circling his hand.

Mirian had forgotten entirely about having set the air in motion. She’d been nearly asleep when she’d done it, certain that if the assault on her nose was any indication, Tomas must be truly suffering. Air drifted up the first spiral then across into the second where it spiraled back to the floor then crossed back to the beginning. Both spirals rotated slowly around the center of the room. Technically, the mage-craft was nothing more than blowing out a thousand specifically placed candles, but she had to admit she was impressed by the complexity she’d managed while unable to sleep. Except…“How did you know?”

Tomas tapped his nose. “Even with the door open, the scent’s so strong I can tell when I’m crossing the streams. And the power is unmistakably you.”

That made sense. Mirian had half thought
she’d
smelled the spirals while crossing them. “I’ll leave it. It’ll run down eventually…” Everything did. “…but until it does, this place needs all the help it can get.”

In spite of the early hour, the street outside the Sisters’ shelter was empty of everyone but a few stragglers heading toward the northeast. Toward the pall of smoke already building. Toward the factories.

“They’re going in the right direction.” Mirian turned on the ball of one foot, the clog pivoting easily over the cobblestones. “We could follow them.”

“Or we could go back to the market to pick up the road we know goes through the city.”

They didn’t know it, not for sure, but she had to admit that the odds were higher. Tomas’ nose was next to useless in the city, and the factories would have guards, and the coach had very certainly not gone by way of the factories unless factories in Abyek came with livery stables.

Tomas rocked back and forth, his clogs ticking against the cobbles. He shifted, created a different rhythm, and grinned as it became the same song the 2nd had been singing on their way to the border. About to ask what he was doing, Mirian realized he was waiting on her decision.

Still, she’d already acknowledged his nose was next to useless here. “Back to the market, then.”

The shelter stood nearly in the center of a long block of two-story houses, white-painted bricks standing out against the red—although most of the red, especially on the upper levels had been blackened by smoke. Mirian hadn’t seen a set of stairs in the shelter, so they were probably behind a door in the kitchen. She wondered if the Sisters used the second floor for arcane rituals or rented it out to pay for the cauldrons of food. She could hear babies crying and a man shouting, could smell food cooking and old urine. Three small children sat on a threshold eating porridge from bowls in their laps, a wet stain against the wall next to them. A pair of small dogs standing in one of the upper windows yapped hysterically at the world until Tomas glanced up, then they tumbled over each other in their haste to disappear.

How did people live like this?

“I owe you an apology.”

Tomas sounded sincere, but Mirian couldn’t think of what he had to apologize for.

“We should have left when you wanted to. Staying…” He waved a hand at the sky, or the buildings, or something Mirian wasn’t aware of. “…that was time we’ll never get back.”

“Yes, we will.”

“First level time travel?”

“What? No!” If he’d been her sister, she’d have poked him for that. As he wasn’t, she settled for rolling her eyes. “If we’d left immediately, I’d be in my boots. Because we stayed, you had time to trade for the clogs. They’re not exactly comfortable, but I’m not crippled in them, so I can move significantly faster.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that.” His lips twitched. “That’s very sensible of you.”

“Thank you.” She was rather impressed by how much she made it sound like
shut up.
After a moment, she added, “It wasn’t the porridge, though, was it? The reason you wanted to stay.”

His cheeks flushed, and he shoved his hands into his trouser pockets.

“And you still don’t want to talk about it. That’s all right.” Some people needed to ease into mornings. Yesterday, he’d been up long enough to steal clothes before she woke. “My father is always difficult before his first cup of coffee.” She stepped over a glistening gray lump with no idea of what it was. Or had been.

“Your father drank coffee? That’s…”

“An insanely expensive import from exotic lands far to the south that the neighbors couldn’t possibly afford? That’s why my mother insisted on it. And why only my father drank it. I thought it smelled amazing.”

Tomas snorted. “You don’t know what amazing smells like.”

And another chance to mention Jaspyr Hagen passed as they reached the market. The permanent stalls around the edges had already opened, and the first of the barrows were being set up. There were significantly more women around than men. Mirian didn’t know if that was because the men had died during the war or because the Pyrahn army had run for Aydori or because more men worked in the factories. The war itself didn’t seem to have touched this part of the city at all, but, as the newspaper had reported the Lord Mayor had surrendered with only a few shots fired, that was easily explained. Her mother had gone on about cowardice, but her father had only put down the paper and said,
“Modern cities weren’t built to be defended. His Grace and the army were on the way to the border and Emperor Leopald wanted those factories in one piece. Smart thing to do. Saved a lot of lives.”

Strangely, there were more men than women in the group gathered around the well and they were visibly stirred up about something. The distance combined with their excitement and their accents made it impossible to understand what all the shouting was about. They looked rough, although Mirian suspected she might not be the best judge of that. From the way others were watching them, they were trouble; she hoped they weren’t fomenting some kind of stupid rebellion because that would draw the soldiers.

“Around or through?” Tomas asked, stepping out in front of her.

Around more than doubled the distance. With the market still almost half empty and the crowd up against the well, they could cross in nearly a straight line. “Through.”

“Stay close.”

“So no wandering off to shop.” When he turned, showing teeth, she raised a hand. “I’m sorry. You didn’t say that. You didn’t even imply that. Assuming that was what you meant was unfair to you.”

“I meant you should stay close.”

“I know. It’s just, there’s people out there. Being out in public, like this…” The shirtwaist cuff protruding from beneath her jacket was stained with a thousand shades of dirt. “…awake enough to be aware of what people are thinking of me, unwashed, unkempt…it’s…unsettling. It makes me defensive.”

“You’ll never see them again. Why do you care?”

She could see he honestly didn’t understand. But then, he was Pack—in fur, in skin, clean, dirty, nothing changed that. If she were Mage-pack, she’d have that certainty, too.

Lord and Lady, Mother, get out of my head!

She didn’t
need
to be Mage-pack to know who she was. Unwashed and unkempt perhaps, but she was Mirian Maylin regardless. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I
don’t
care. It’s a long way to Karis; let’s go.”

His nod held nothing but acceptance.

Of course it was one thing to say she didn’t care and another thing entirely not to care. Mirian looked across the square, locked her gaze on the road that would take them out of Abyek, and tried not to think of her appearance. Tried not to think of that old bald man or that woman with the tanned, bared forearms or that gaggle of children watching her and judging. She wasn’t very successful until they came they came closer to the well and some of the shouted words grew clearer. Suddenly, she wasn’t thinking of her appearance at all.

“…Imperial courier said…”

“…how it is now!”

“Why shouldn’t we get…?”

“…Imperials don’t need the fucking money!”

“…enough to risk…”

“Fuck it, for that much I’d…”

“…abomination!”

Tomas growled low in his throat and Mirian grabbed his hand. “They don’t know.” She was proud of how steady her voice sounded. “Just keep walking.”

But it was already too late.

“There! There it is!” The crowd parted, exposing the man at the well. The farm worker who’d stopped them on the road pointed at Tomas. Still huge and flushed and jowly, but triumphant, not afraid.

Mirian tried to yank Tomas away, but he growled louder, hands going to his jacket.

“Hold him!”

An elbow slammed into the side of Mirian’s head. She stumbled back, fell, and from the ground saw the farm worker clamp one enormous hand down on Tomas’ shoulder and wrap the other around his face as the men who’d been holding him stepped back. Tomas could change in clothes. He’d be tangled in the fabric, but he’d have teeth and terror…and why didn’t he change!

“Silver pin!” The farm worker bellowed. “That Imperial courier gived out a handful yesterday!”

“To you, Harn?” one of the other men laughed.

The farm worker’s name was Harn. Not that it mattered now.

“No, but I got one anyway, don’t I? Shoved it right into him and he’s helpless.”

Tomas fought and snarled, got an arm free and closed his hand around the front of Harn’s throat.

The big man banged their foreheads together, and Tomas sagged. “I should’ve stuck the pin in your fucking eye!” he bellowed, stepping back and allowing the crowd to take Tomas to the ground.

Mirian threw herself at one of the men holding Tomas’ leg, trying to knock him off balance. A hand in her hair threw her back. She landed on her side. Cried out as a boot caught her under the ribs, once, twice.

“Three silver emperors for the pelt! That’s what the courier said!”

“Then he has to change, Harn!”

Coughing and crying, Mirian rolled up onto her hands and knees.

“I don’t fancy that!”

“Let him change! We kill him and takes his pelt!”

“No, no, I heard the stories! We let him change, we all die.”

“He don’t need to change!” Harn dropped to one knee and dragged Tomas’ head up. Blood from his nose ran down over his lips and teeth. “This here, it ain’t hair. It’s fur. And the courier says it’s good enough!”

Harn waved a knife, the blade long and thin.

“Kill ’em quick, Harn!”

“Kill him?” The big man laughed. “Maybe after!”

Pain stabbing up under her ribs, Mirian didn’t have breath enough to scream.

If you can light a candle…